usetts on her return trip tells us that, so far from there being
good news from Charleston, we have only the worst to hear. The brave
little Keokuk is riddled with balls and sunk, and the fleet of ironclads
have retired from before the city. It is a costly experience, though it
may yet bear precious fruit, for they tell us it has revealed what was
necessary to make our next attack successful. What it is, we cannot
learn, the authorities meaning in the future, doubtless, to wait till
deeds have won them praise, before they make promises of great work.

Night draws on again, and we move in toward shore. Signal lights are
burning, and huge bonfires, built behind the forests, that their glare
may not light up the water, but their reflection against the background
of the sky shows blockade runners the lay and bearings of the land.
Something will surely be done to-night, and we keep vigilant watch. Two
o'clock A. M., and a sound is heard, whether of paddle wheels,
surf on the beach, or blowing off of steam, we cannot tell. 'It's paddle
wheels,' says our ensign, and reports quickly to the captain. The first
lieutenant springs on deck, a steam whistle is heard, so faint that only
steam-taught ears know the sound, and word is passed to slip our chain
and anchor, and make chase in the direction of the sound. They spring to
the chain and work with a will to unshackle it quickly, but things are
not as they should be; the hammer is not at hand, and the pins not fixed
for speedy slipping out, even when struck a sharp, heavy blow. 'I think
I see a dark object off the direction of the sound we heard, sir,' says
some one. 'Confound the chain! will it never unshackle?' they exclaim,
as they seek to unloose it. At last it slips, we steam up, and are off
in pursuit, but which way shall we turn, and where shall we chase? There
is no guiding sound now, and we paddle cautiously on, spending the
balance of the night in this blind work, feeling for the prize which has
slipped from our fingers, for, as day dawns, we see a large steamer,
safe under the walls of the fort. If disappointments make philosophers,
we ought to rank with Diogenes.

The next day is filled with growl and 'ifs' and 'ands,' and 'if _this_
had been so and so,' and 'but for that neglect, which we shall know how
to avoid next time,' etc., etc. The afternoon of another day comes on,
and then a sail is descried, and off we go after it. Seven or eight
miles' run brings us close to